


All You've Got to Do Is Win

by berrevy



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: M/M, except they're still separated, lots of teasing but also angst and yearning, post-quarantine reunion, sander pov, tennis I guess?, tennis as a ~metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24202081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berrevy/pseuds/berrevy
Summary: “Careful, now.”“Or what?” Robbe walks off, over to his side of the net, voice raising as he goes. “You may as well just draw a picture of you winning cos that’s the only way it’s gonna happen.”It's Sander's turn to splutter. "Jesus...who are you and what have you done with Robbe? Where did this littlesavagecome from?"(or, how that tennis match might've played out)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 31
Kudos: 131





	All You've Got to Do Is Win

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve been into tennis/tennis fandom for years and these are absolutely two worlds I never saw colliding, but I thought I’d try to make something of it because why not, it’s 2020 and life is absolutely bonkers. Enjoy! And please feel free to correct me on any translations, google can only get you so far
> 
> Title from Bowie’s _Win_

Robbe’s determined to be Nadal. 

He rambles on about it from the second they pick up their gear and set off to find a court, that he’s gonna be _El Matador_ , that Sander doesn’t know what he’s getting himself in for, and did you know he has twelve French Opens, _twelve_ , that he’s the ultimate competitor and he never gives up, and Robbe’s gonna be like that today, he’s not gonna give Sander an inch.

There’s a nervousness about him; he seems half-breathless, stuffing the space between them with as many words as he can, and Sander grins along helplessly as he listens, scoffs and rolls his eyes. As soon as he gets an opening he says, “He’s the one with the ass, right?”

Right on cue Robbe does that spluttering wide-eyed thing, and it gives Sander the same struck-gold feeling it always does.

After a little eye roll Robbe just picks up where he left off, gesturing as they walk, and Sander watches him sidelong, following every movement, twirling his racket in his hand with the same skittishness, the same urge to swell up and spill out and overflow. They’ve not even warmed up and already he’s sweating a little, his body buzzing and alight like it doesn’t quite know how to process being around a flesh-and-blood Robbe again after so long.

“How d’you know all this stuff, anyway?” he asks. “I mean I knew you liked sports, but…”

Robbe hitches a shoulder, looks off at a nearby couple stretching by a bench. “Papa and I used to watch it together. Probably one of the only things we did do together. I think he just liked explaining things to me.”

And besides, Robbe goes on to say, he doesn’t know that much really, just the broad strokes, the stuff everyone knows. And everyone knows that Rafa Nadal crushes his opponents. At that last part he looks about a second away from sticking out his tongue, and Sander instinctively goes to give him a little shove. He catches himself last minute, draws his arm back down to his side.

They take to the court and hover near the net at a safe distance, the dull _thwack thwack_ of rallies in the background. For a moment it feels like neither of them’s quite sure where to put themselves. Under normal circumstances this is where Sander would reach out, run a hand down Robbe’s arm, tug at his collar or ruffle his hair, anything teasing to throw him off, any excuse to just _touch_.

Robbe leans his weight on one foot and stares somewhere around Sander’s mid-section, as though he’s trying not to expect it. Then he looks up, smiling, fishes a coin out of his shorts pocket and flips it one-handed, and something about the glint of it in the air makes Sander feel like a cooped up dog being shown a leash for the first time in weeks.

“You called heads, right?” Robbe says, looking down at where it’s landed on the astroturf.

“Yep!” Sander laces his fingers and stretches his arms over his head, smug. “I serve first, then?”

Robbe pokes his tongue into his cheek, nodding to himself as if to say _here we go_. “Be my guest. You’ll probably need the headstart.”

“ _Pfff._ ”

Sander makes a face and heads towards his end of the court, unable to resist swatting at Robbe’s ass with his racket as he passes. Robbe practically jolts out of his skin, shoots him a scandalised look over his shoulder.

“What?” Sander says, all innocence, walking backwards now, “I didn’t touch you, it’s allowed.”

Robbe watches him, mouth curving slow in a bemused little smile - Sander worries for a moment that he might trip over his own feet - and says, “Idiot.”

“Careful, now.”

“Or what?” Robbe starts to walk off too, over to his side of the net, voice raising as he goes. “You may as well just draw a picture of you winning cos that’s the only way it’s gonna happen.”

It’s Sander’s turn to splutter. “Jesus…who are you and what have you done with Robbe? Where did this little _savage_ come from?”

“Uh, quarantine?” Robbe calls from across the court, looking absolutely delighted with himself. “I’m a changed man!”

“Yeah, Nadal, apparently.”  
  
“That’s right. Who’re you gonna be, anyway?”

Having expected that one, Sander answers immediately. “Federer. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Robbe repeats, and Sander can still hear the laugh in his voice, still see the comical raise of his eyebrows from where he stands at the baseline, all 78 feet of court between them. _Marc would be proud_ , he thinks briefly, bitterly.

“It makes sense, right?” Sander says with his arms spread mock-defensive, and Robbe waves his racket in a _sure, sure_ gesture.

It seems like it fits, anyway, from the handful of highlight reels Sander’s watched since suggesting the whole thing. He’d just plugged “tennis” into YouTube and Federer had come up first, and the more he watched the more he realised the two words were more or less synonymous. He’s actually pretty into the idea, likes the all whites and the balleticism, thinks he could do an ok job of being poised and ruthless, strolling cool and unhurried between points and tossing the hair from his eyes. _Baryshnikov in sneakers_ , a commentator had called him. Sander’ll take that.

“You know Nadal always beats Federer, right?”

Another little shot aimed straight at him. He realises with a small thrill that Robbe’s enjoying this, being able to play around, being the one doing the teasing, feeling out this new space in his own curious way. So Sander just smirks at him with a fixed, intent look, and bats it back.

“Maybe Federer lets him win, you ever think about that? Maybe they like each other.”

“What?” Robbe says, half-laughing.

“Maybe we’re playing the parts of star-crossed rivals. This is a love game,” Sander winks, and now Robbe's laughing fully, head tilted back, his whole face changing with it.

Sander takes a moment to just watch, his heart giving a little lurch in his chest. It’s like finally getting a grip on something that’s been dangled at arm’s length, and he wants more of it, so he splays one hand out against his racket, fingers curling as he pretends to test the tension in the strings, _hmming_ and frowning like he knows what he’s doing. He gets another giggle, looks up to catch another eye roll, and Sander smiles to himself. It’s a comfort to know he’ll get all the same reactions to all the same stupid shit, that all those parts are working just as they were.

They look at each other for a few moments; Sander feels a small breeze ruffle his hair and wonders if Robbe’s thinking the same thing. There’s a fond tilt to his head that tells Sander he probably is. Someone yells, “ _Out!_ ” in the distance, and Robbe turns to it absently, then rolls his neck and starts to bounce on the balls of his feet, all coiled up like a spring.

“ _Allee_ , Sander, c’mon.”

The sound of his name in Robbe’s mouth - Robbe’s actual _voice_ , not just something transmitted through a screen - almost catches him again, but he gathers himself and pulls a ball from his pocket, runs his thumb over scratchy yellow fuzz, the felt-tip zigzag marking it as his own.

With a slight bend of the knees, Sander tosses it up, pulls back his racket, and promptly whacks it straight into the net.

“Love fifteen,” Robbe says immediately, like a punchline.

Sander just huffs, frowning down at the ball as he goes to collect it. He toes at the ground, unimpressed.

“I’m better on real grass.”

Robbe smiles again, big and fond. “I’ll take your word for it. C’mon, try again, you can do it.”

“ _Robbe_ ,” he groans, head lolling to one shoulder, “Don’t take pity on me, we’re fierce rivals, remember?”

“I thought we were secret lovers?”

“Only when I’m winning.”

His second serve is a bit more tentative, but it lands in and then they’re rallying, carefully, awkwardly, trying to strike some kind of rhythm. After a few soft points where they mostly make faces and try to throw each other off, they start to actually play, and he quickly learns Robbe was being serious about the Nadal thing. As soon as the pace picks up he gets scrappy, tenacious; he whips around court, chasing down every ball and trying his very best to fuck Sander up with topspin - or at least that’s what he’d called it, Sander doesn’t know what the hell topspin is. When he’d asked Robbe to explain, it turned out Robbe didn’t really know either, but they’d both agreed it sounded cool.

The effortless, balletic thing doesn’t quite work out for him. In reality he’s laughing and swearing and lunging about, but he finds he’s actually pretty good at ripping the ball cross-court, just putting all that pent-up energy behind the swing of his arm. Apparently Robbe’s strong at the net too, quick-footed and intuitive, batting the ball back relentlessly every time Sander tries to pass him.

“You’ve gotta be quicker, man,” Robbe breathes, all adrenaline, palming his sweaty fringe back from his forehead.

Sander just shoots him a withering look and waves him off. “Shut up, I’m a goat.”

For a second Robbe double-takes as though he’d misheard, then practically erupts with laughter. “Wh-what?!”

“What.” Sander says flatly, blinking, but Robbe flaps a hand and keeps laughing, hunching forward and bracing himself on the net.

“Robbe what the fuck, what’s so funny?” Sander’s got his hands on his hips now, frowning over at him. “If I’m Fed then I’m a goat, right?”

“ _Neeee,_ ” Robbe almost whines, swiping a finger under his eye, “Sander, baby, you’re _the_ GOAT. Greatest of all time?”

“Aaaah,” Sander breathes, wide-eyed. “I thought it was a Swiss thing.”

Robbe sizes him up with a learned kind of cautiousness, like he’s not sure if Sander’s just fucking with him or not.

“You thought it meant an actual goat? Really?”

“I dunno, I just figured it was a good thing, like it meant you were good at running around on grass, or climbing shit or whatever.”

Sander just shrugs - it’s a fair assumption to make - and Robbe looks over at him, eyes wet and half-mooned and happy, one of the softest expressions Sander’s ever seen unfolding across his face.

“You’re so fucking cute.”

Somehow, he hears a lot of other things Robbe might want to say in that. There’s a lot he wants to say back. But once that door’s opened, he knows it won’t be held shut. Knows that much about himself by now.

“I know,” he says instead, archly, pulling an arm across his chest to stretch out his shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go again.”

*

“That’s in.”

“Sander. It’s not.”

“Clearly in.”

“100% out.”

“Look, it was in the lines there, see it’s-”

“Nope.”

“Yep.”

“ _Nee_ , those are the tramlines, it’s out.”

Sander turns to the spot where Robbe’s pointing, gives it a cock-eyed sort of look.

“Well that’s just stupid, it shouldn’t work like that.”

“It’s the sport, Sander, those are the rules.”

Sander snorts. “You think there are any rules here? We can play how we like.”

“Or how _you_ like, huh? That’s very convenient for you.”

“Shhh now, _schat_ , I’m trying to focus.”

“I wondered what that look on your face was.”

Sander’s mouth drops open. “Were you always this much of a brat?”

“Were you always this much of a sore loser?”

“I’ll throw this ball at you.”

“Oooh no, so _scary_ Sander.”

Robbe hugs himself at the shoulders, arms crossed against his chest. He drops his chin to his forearm and looks up from beneath the thick sweep of his lashes, insolent, ready to take another nip.

“You’re not quick enough, you wouldn’t get me.”

“I would,” Sander says evenly, taking one step forward, “I’d chase you. And when I catch you-”

“If-”

“ _When_ I catch you, I’ll-”

“You’ll wha-”

“I’ll pin you to the fucking court and see who’s winning then, huh?”

Suddenly Robbe goes very quiet, and swallows, pink flush spilling like paint across his cheeks. Coolly, Sander lifts his chin and strikes a finger through the air, a point on a scoreboard.

Advantage Driesen.

*

“Stop jumping around so much, you’re distracting me.”

“Ok, ok!” Robbe calls, voice pitched high and floating over from where’s been practically vibrating mid-court, waiting to pick off another one of Sander’s second serves. “Don’t wanna rush the greatest.”

Sander nods, once. “Glad you’ve accepted it. You know I’ve got more slams than you.”

“You - what?”

“Slams, right? Federer’s got more?”

Frowning, Robbe draws himself upright, racket arm falling to his side. “Like one more, maybe. Since when are you suddenly an expert on the guy?”

Sander shrugs, leans forward leisurely to bounce the ball a couple times. “Since I googled it yesterday. Incoming!”

A quick toss in the air, an unthinking brush of his racket and it’s his best serve of the afternoon; it almost catches the centre line, shoots straight past Robbe who starts and freezes on the spot. He turns his head to look over his shoulder, and then back at Sander, wide-eyed. 

“ _Man_. That was amazing!”

Robbe’s beaming, like he couldn’t care less about being wrong-footed, and Sander pretends to gloat, pushes out his bottom lip and nods along, trying not to show how warmed he is by the compliment, the genuine look of awe on Robbe’s face.

“Seriously where did that come from, fuck. Maybe you are Federer after all.”

“They do say he’s an artist,” Sander says airily, producing a second ball from his pocket, throwing and catching it one-handed.

“Ok then,” Robbe rolls his shoulders, newly determined, “we’ve got a game now, maestro.”

They don’t, really. The more tired they get, the more the match dissolves into a stumbling mess, and they spend a lot of time going to collect wild, shanked balls that end up stuck in hedges or stuttering across other people’s courts. But it’s fun and _weird_ and it’s the two of them breathing the same air, and the sensible part of Sander knows they’ve both needed it, to run around, burn off some of the boredom and inertia that lockdown seems to settle into the bones.

It’s good for Robbe, in particular; of the two of them he’s always been the one to be a little more physical, need that extra exertion. Sander thinks of the strange kinetic energy that sparks off him just before he hops onto his board, or throws a leg over his bike, or scales a wall like it’s nothing. It’s one of those things Sander sees in colour - a bright crackle of yellow, like the spike of a pulse - and he keeps trying to get it down on paper in a way that does it justice. He thinks of the way Robbe used to climb all over everything when they’d go to the park on Fridays, to laugh and fuck around for hours on end, all keyed up on each other’s closeness and the wide stretch of a weekend before them.

One night they’d been wandering home from a party, tipsy and loose, hanging off of each other, and Robbe’d broken away to climb the tree near the end of his street. Sander had been in such a rush to get him home and get his hands on him that he’d half-heartedly tried to talk him down, but quickly ended up just hoisting himself up too, folding in behind Robbe on the sturdiest branch. It’d been one of those moments that felt like a memory even as it was happening; dangling feet and twigs in their hair, Sander humming something off-key, the world below gone blurry and soft.

Sander feels it all start to simmer up in his chest, pushing thick at the base of his throat, and a ball almost immediately whizzes past his ear, jolting him out of it.

“Thirty love!”

He huffs over at Robbe. “Stop it!”

Robbe holds his racket behind his back with both hands, innocent. “Stop what?”

“Stop yelling the score, I know you’re winning.”

“It’s good that you’re coming to terms with it.”

Robbe looks so proud of himself, and Sander tries not to laugh, he really does. “You are loving this, you ass.”

“I love _you!_ Now focus, c’mon.”

The sun shifts behind the clouds, floods half the court. Robbe’s stood smack in the centre, squinting against it with that big, toothy grin, bouncing on his feet like he could go five sets, and the sight of it, the way Robbe tosses those words at him like they’re second nature, almost topples Sander entirely.

It’s having Robbe right there in front of him, full-bodied, not just whatever pieces Sander could catch through a screen, pin to the forefront of his mind as he tried to sleep, tried to force his body to relax, to reshift around the constant ache of missing him, missing him, missing him. It’d felt so much like the early days, those snatches of him Sander would hoard and curl over, privately, like treasure. A photo of his side profile, half-blurred as he turned; the bright, bubbling sound of his giggle, cut short in a five-second video; a quick mid-lecture sketch of the stubborn cowlick at the back of his neck, or better, the tiny mole on his right ear, Sander’s pencil-tip pressing down into the page like a quick kiss. All those quiet, miraculous things that Robbe is made of. Everything Sander wants to hold in his own hands, fingers pressed tight so nothing slips through.

“All ok?”

Robbe’s voice comes out of nowhere, soft and close. Sander looks up to find him hovering right at the net, very clearly trying not to look concerned.

As far as Sander can tell there’s an agreement between them right now, a kind of unspoken pact of _yeah this fucking sucks but let’s just make the most of it_ , and he doesn’t want to break it, doesn’t want Robbe to worry, doesn’t want to make him sad. Maybe he’d been smarter than he realised with the whole tennis idea, because the match has helped with that, something to focus on outside of that last stretch of uncrossable distance.

So Sander puts on his best lopsided smile and says, “Of course, just can’t focus with how cute you are!”

Again he knows just where that one will land, knows Robbe’s return by heart - a blushing, downturned smile - and takes the same comfort in that as before.

“Silly,” Robbe shakes his head at the ground. “Sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah, Robbe,” Sander says gently, and shoos him off, “Go on, it’s your serve.”

“Okaaay, _ca va_.” Robbe gets back in position and readies himself, brings the ball into the neck of his racket and holds it there, pitched forward slightly as he looks up at Sander. “You know if I hold now it’s game over?”

“Bring it on,” Sander smirks, and during the next few points he goes down singing.

“ _Somebody lied, I say it’s hip-_ ” Sander belts, ripping a forehand, “ _-to be aliiive._ ”

Robbe laughs his name as he chases it down, lobs it back over his head. “Sander, stop!”

“ _Seems you’re trying not to lose-_ ” Sander sings even louder, throwing his head back as another winner flies past him.

“This is gamesmanship!” Robbe pants, hitting a dropshot, and Sander lunges for it, a second too late.

“ _Since I’m not supposed to win-_ ” Sander twists his torso for a backhand, hits a passing shot.

“Federer doesn’t sing!” Robbe volleys it back at his feet.

“Not as good as I do, no! _All you’ve got to do is-_ ”

He just about gets his racket on Robbe’s last serve, sends it shooting straight up to the birds.

“Game set match IJzermans!” Robbe cries in a rush, arms thrown up above his head. “Two sets to love, 6-3, 6-2. Thank you, thank you.”

Robbe waves to an imaginary crowd, giggling as he fakes a little bow, and for that, he’d let Robbe beat him a hundred times. He’d let Robbe do anything.

“Well played,” Robbe breathes, still grinning madly as they walk towards each other, and Sander wags a finger at him, his comeback locked and loaded.

“Y’know, you may have won, but we’re still the perfect match.”

Once again the laughter just bursts out of Robbe, like something being released, sprung open. It reminds him of something Robbe told him once, hanging upside down on his bed as Sander did his best impression of an art critic, wandering around Robbe’s room in a turtleneck, hand to chin, stooping to inspect an old Skyrim poster like it was Magritte’s _Golconda_. He’d said that no one on earth can make him laugh like Sander does.

Here and now, it makes Sander want to drop what he’s holding, vault over the net and tackle him to the ground, just get his mouth on him and swallow Robbe’s laughter right down into his own belly. He wants Robbe’s joy _in_ him, wants something to take home when he has to leave Robbe, or watch Robbe leave, yet again.

Sander doesn’t think he hates anything more than that. They’ve already left each other more than they ever should’ve had to.

They linger face to face either side of the net, and for once Sander has no idea what else to say. He feels it all start to barrel into him again, tries to speak even as his throat closes up - he wants to say _I don’t feel whole without you_ , wants to say _please_ please _touch me, I don’t care, I don’t give a shit anymore-_

“I hate this.”

Robbe says it softly, plainly, as if he were clarifying something obvious. His eyebrows twitch and pull together, and he looks down, one hand flexing at his side. When he looks up again it’s with a shrug and a sad little twist of a smile. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. Robbe has a knack for saying something in the simplest way and just letting it stick.

“Me too,” Sander says, and his voice comes out raw, strangled. He clears his throat and turns his head to the side, squinting off into the distance and wiping the sweat from his top lip. When he looks back, he gives Robbe what he hopes is a reassuring wink.

“C’mon, champ. I owe you something from the vending machine.”

*

There’s some shitty dance song playing in the clubhouse, and Sander bitches about it all the way to reception, swears he’s gonna put in a complaint when things go back to normal.

“Quit stalling,” Robbe grins, standing off to one side on a marked circle on the floor. “I want my prize.”

“Ok, ok, so _pushy._ ”

Sander throws him a put-upon look, and even though it’s a joke Robbe apologises instantly, hands held in front of his body, all that playful bravado left firmly out on court.

“Sorry, sorry. Can I have number sixteen, please?”

“Anything for you, _liefste,_ ” Sander sing-songs as he pushes coins into the slot, and a bag of malteasers thunks its way down into the tray.

“Your trophy,” he says, holding it out, and Robbe carefully takes it by one corner, then brings it to his lips and gives it a quick kiss.

“Eyy,” Sander scolds, tucking back his chin, “I touched that.”

“Ah, who cares, Nadal kisses his trophies. Actually he bites them, but I don’t wanna look stupid.”

Sander rasps out a laugh, leaning one hip against the machine. “Of course not. You could bite me if you like?”

“Sander.”

“Ok, ok!” He pushes off with his hands raised, “Worth a try.”

They wander off towards the showers, a little stiff and sore, giving a wide berth to anyone that passes. When they arrive, Sander quickly realises he should’ve thought this one out more.

It’s a challenge. The locker room is cramped, muggy, steam condensing on every surface, droplets beading on the tiled walls. They stand side to side with their eyes cast downwards, hyperaware of every movement as they rummage round their bags, pulling out towels, clean t-shirts, fresh underwear.

Sander chances a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, and the first thing he sees is Robbe’s necklace; the pendant lies at a weird angle against his chest, stuck in place with sweat. Blood roars in his ears as he pictures himself pushing Robbe into a nearby stall, mouthing along his collarbone, licking at the salt-taste of him before the water has a chance to wash it away. Maybe Robbe feels it, because he darts a sideways glance back at Sander, brown eyes wide and mouth half-open, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. Sander quickly averts his gaze, his mouth quirking. He hums to fill the silence, but it’s all so oppressively awkward that he can’t help but let out a snort - and then another, louder, the sound of it echoing off the walls.

“Sander…”

Choking back laughter, he shuts his locker door and turns to Robbe fully, gesturing with his damp t-shirt clutched in one hand.

“ _Allee_ , Robbe, this is the worst.”

“No,” Robbe makes a nervous, fluttering noise, covers his face with his hand, “No, I’m not looking at you.”

“Aww, why not,” Sander coos and touches his bare chest, right over his heart, “come on Robbe, I’m right here, I’m all yours-”

“Sander.” Robbe’s voice is soft, and he’s half-smiling, but it’s clear he’s not joking. “I’m really trying, ok?”

Sander stops, drops his hand to scratch at his elbow, mouth twisted to one side.

“Sorry,” he mutters, rolls his eyes a little at himself. “Sorry, I should - I should know when to stop, I know.”

Robbe turns then, gives him a strange look that makes Sander worry for a moment that he actually is pissed, that Sander’s missed the line, gone too hard, shot out too far again.

“Woah, wait, you know you just apologised to me twice in a row? Maybe this really is the end of the world.”

Laughter huffs out of Sander before he can stop it - and it stops _him_ from getting stuck on that same old sandbag of a thought that never fails to drag him down. And from the warm, watchful look on Robbe’s face, he knows it was deliberate, that misdirection. A neat little sleight of hand, one of his magic tricks.

Sander loves him.

“But really that’s not what I meant, you don’t have to know when to-” Robbe cuts himself off, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to find the words. “Honestly Sander, it’s ok.”

This is usually the part where Robbe would reach for him, offer that soothing skin touch, the best thing there is for levelling Sander out within seconds. It feels unbearably wrong that it doesn’t come, like a part of their machinery is missing, leaving them off-kilter, listing off to one side.

He’s felt like that himself, on the bad days - and there were a few, when he realised how hard this thing had hit, how it wouldn’t just be a case of lying low for a week or two. Days when he’d pinball round the walls of his room, from one thing to another to the next, wanting to rip out his own pages and start over. When it felt like the world was shrinking and him shrinking with it. On Thursday afternoons he’d sit at his desk and try to wrestle it all into words for his therapist, head propped in one fist, staring down at the paint flecked across his keyboard.

Sometimes, when they’d worked through the worst of it, they’d chat for the last few minutes. He’d ask after her family, how they’d been coping, and she’d say _well, Sander, here’s one thing I try to tell myself._ That on the days where it feels like you’re fighting a losing battle, to take the little victories where you can.

So he started to make note of them, wherever they came; the strong breath in his mama’s lungs as she called him down for dinner, the fleeting freedom of throwing open a window, the sharp-citrus smell of soap as he scrubbed his hands for the tenth time that day. Unfurling his pencil roll to sharpen his favourites, the inward-curl of shavings left littered across his sketchpad. Washing his brushes and whistling some nonsense tune as he watched the murky-grey water run clean. Every single time his phone pinged and he’d swipe it open like a kid on Christmas to find Robbe’s name, the melting warmth in his stomach just at the sight of it. The little floods of messages in the mornings, when he’d wake up before Sander, lovehearts peppered through their chat threads like punctuation.

“We really should get cleaned up, I’m getting all sticky.”

Robbe presses a hand to his face a couple times, draws it back to look at it, then turns to Sander with a smile - close-lipped, a little expectant.

“You?”

“Yeah, _ca va,_ ” Sander says, throwing a towel round his neck. “Just miss getting clean with you,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows, and if they did have a shorthand, or a secret code - like Sander sometimes suspects they do - that one would mean, _I’m fine, promise._

And it works, too. Almost immediately, Robbe’s smile softens at the edges. He nods once to himself, satisfied, and says, “Y’know, we should take a bath when all this is over.”

Sander’s head pops up like a meerkat’s. “ _Echt?_ ”

“Yeah, I mean. It’d be nice, right?”

Sander clasps both ends of the towel at his shoulders and takes a half-step back, widening his eyes theatrically. “Now that’s an _idea_ , IJzermans, best one you’ve had all day.”

Robbe just shakes his head and watches him, twinkly-eyed, like Sander’s his very own one-man show.

“Got any more ideas like that?”

“Uhhm, how about I tell you when we’ve got clothes on.”

“Sounds good.”

As they approach the row of stalls, Robbe winks at him, but it’s not flirtatious. More of a knowing thing. _Hang in there. We’ve got this. We’ll be ok._

Sander feels the ground beneath them start to even out again, ever so slightly.

*

They find a patch of grass nearby, or rather Sander finds it, hones in on this one idyllic sun-dappled spot under a tree and rushes over, pulling Robbe along by his t-shirt.

“Sander not so fast, my fucking _legs-_ ”

“That’s what you get for running around so much and beating me.”

They throw out their towels to air-dry and settle down facing each other, crack open the lukewarm beers Sander’d brought along in the hopes of a post-match picnic just like this one. He’d brought crisps too, though they’ve taken a beating, thrown into his bag in a rush and crushed to bits as he peddled madly away from his house. They tip the bag, tilt their heads and funnel them back, chewing and looking around themselves at all the empty, open space. Robbe takes out his malteasers and starts firing them into Sander’s open mouth until he realises half the pack is gone, and hoards the rest for himself.

There’s still a slight breeze, and Sander’s got one of his favourite songs stuck in his head. If he doesn’t think too hard, it almost feels like a normal cusp-of-summer afternoon. He takes a long, contended swig of his beer, tries not to smirk too hard when he catches Robbe staring at his exposed neck. He still loves it, Robbe’s occasional shyness at wanting him, even half a year later.

When they’re finished they lay down on the grass, top to tail - still feet apart, but Sander crooks his arm anyway, makes space for where Robbe’s head should be. He looks over at Robbe’s bedhead curls and imagines he can feel them tickling against his inner elbow. Robbe has one arm thrown across his stomach; his fingers twitch every now and then in Sander’s direction, and Sander imagines he can feel that too, ghosting along his fringe, dipping and threading through to tug the way he likes, scratching lightly against his scalp.

With the breeze and the birdsong, the dull ache in his limbs, Sander almost starts to drift off. He cracks open an eye to check if Robbe is too and finds him staring up at the canopy, spaced-out.

“What you thinking, pretty boy?”

Sander’s voice comes out thicker, mellower now that he’s relaxed.

“Ah, nothing important,” Robbe shrugs, fingers drumming on his stomach.

“Course it is. Come on.”

One thing he knows about Robbe, has always known, easy as breathing - he likes to be heard. It tends to be that way, for people who’re used to the opposite.

“Just…I dunno, that we’re lucky? To be healthy, I mean. Just feels like we’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

Robbe’s still gazing upwards like he can see their near-future in the underbelly of the tree, all those possibilities splitting and branching off in all directions. It throws Sander backwards and forwards at once, ripples down through him like he’s taken a sip of something warm.

“Like what?” he says, shifting on his back, settling in, “Tell me.”

“You mean apart from the bath?” Robbe throws him a quick sideways smile.

“Ooo, that too,” Sander says, sucking in a breath, pleased when Robbe huffs softly. “Just,” he waves a hand, “all of it. I’ve got nowhere to be.”

So Robbe starts to talk, and Sander closes his eyes and lets his voice wash over him, chimes in with an idea of his own here and there. For the next half hour or so, he sees the summer roll out like a film reel in his mind, nudged about and redirected by each of them in turn - unrestricted, just exactly as they like.

They’re gonna go surfing, Robbe says, and he’ll beat him at that, too.

_This isn’t fair I don’t even know how to surf._

_And? I didn’t know Bowie when we met and you still tested me on that._

They’ll go back to their beach, mid-August, just before Robbe’s birthday. Sander will wipe out a couple times, and make a fuss when Robbe tries to help; a hand on his hip under the water, gently guiding him on how to hold his weight and build up speed, patient reminders to keep his knees bent, to always look in the direction he’s going.

_C’mon, try to stay upright three times._

_Fuck you, Space Cowboy!_

Afterwards they’ll rest on the shore, Sander’s head in Robbe’s lap, Robbe braced upright on one arm with his wetsuit half-unzipped, tied around his waist. Sander will look up at the sand streaked up the side of his neck, and tell Robbe that he watched him walk out across the beach that first morning, headphones up and hands in his pockets, the only living boy in Belgium. He’ll tell him about the way he’d hovered around that cramped little kitchenette with his heart in his throat, sneaking glances out through the window, waiting for Robbe to crest the horizon and cut through the long grass towards him.

In July, when it’s hottest, they’ll go to Doel and wander around their very own ghost town in the sun, and it’ll feel like a whole other planet. Robbe, having been there before, will point out the old corner cafe and the rusted corkscrew sculpture, and they’ll argue over whether it’s a fish or a rabbit, and Sander will win that one because he knows -

_\- how to interpret art, ok, you really shouldn’t second guess the master. I’m a connoisseur of weird shit._

_Jesus…wait, then what does that say about me?_

_That you’re my favourite little weirdo, Robin._

_Ja, ja. You’re mine too._

When they wander through the leafier parts Robbe will stop mid-sentence to point out a bright red cluster of flowers, and Sander will pick one and thread it behind his ear, frame it in his hands like a picture and say, _mooi_. They’ll have a judging contest for the graffiti, and Sander will take some time to just stare at the way it sprawls all over every building like something growing, the way the colours seem to bake in the heat, feel alive when he presses a palm to them. He’ll make faces at the pieces he doesn’t like and explain to Robbe why he likes the ones he does, and it’ll be Sander’s new favourite place. Their new place. They’ll go back a second time, and Sander will bring a few cans of his own to add to the sprawl.

They’ll go swimming again as soon as they can, that one’s already decided. The water will be warm this time, and the smell of chlorine will make Sander’s heart rate tick up like it did that night, like it always will, a knee-jerk reflex now written into his DNA. They’ll try to compete over something else, another race, or a handstand, but they’ll keep getting distracted. Sander will reach for him again and again, outstretched arm rippling beneath the surface, and the windmill will fan out behind Robbe’s head like a halo as he reaches back, blue water-shadow marbled across his face, like something from one of Sander’s college textbooks - an icon in stained glass.

They’ll get ice cream after; Robbe sat on a low wall and Sander stood between his legs, touching his cone to the tip of Robbe’s nose just for an excuse to kiss it away. They’ll go to the skate park with the boys and won’t untangle for a moment, stand shoulder-to-shoulder in Sander’s spacious kitchen making strange midnight sandwiches, lie twisted up across his double bed with the windows thrown wide, and Sander will draw every single moment, file it all away into the storybook, the Robbe and Sander Anthology.

“If we were one of those weird old folk bands, that’d be the title of our first album,” Robbe murmurs up at the leaves, blinking sleepily.

Sander frowns with his eyes closed. “What d’you mean weird? Those are the best kind of bands.”

That song’s still circling round the back of his mind, the way good songs tend to until he gets them out.

“ _Hmmm no deeds to do, no promises to keep, I’m-_ ” he stops abruptly, can't think of the next part so he hums it instead.

“Ah, we have another songbird.”

“Ha. _All is groooovy…_ ”

“That’s nice, what is it?”

“Simon and Garfunkel, you know them?”

“Nope.”

Eyes now open, Sander lifts his head a little. “Robbe, c’mon. That’s like _classic_ music, those guys are the greats.”

Robbe rolls his eyes skyward. “How come you only listen to music my mama likes?”

“She has good taste.”

“She says hi, by the way. I think she’s missed you.”

“Like I said, good taste.” Sander folds one arm behind his head, turns his body slightly. “She doing ok?”

Robbe brightens immediately. “Yeah, yeah. Better.”

“Send her a kiss from me.”

Rolling on to his side, Robbe props his head in his hand and sort of rocks, loose and contented, his eyes honey-soft and his smile dimpled. Sander just stares back up at him adoringly, knowing it’s splashed all over his face and not giving a fuck, wanting Robbe to see. Always, always wanting Robbe to see, cracked open, nothing to hide anymore. 

“And me?” Robbe says, curious and sweet, fingers curling softly in the grass, “Do I get one too?”

Sander doesn’t even have to think. “You know I’d do it in a heartbeat if you’d let-”

He stops himself, doesn’t want that to sound accusatory, even as a joke. Whether it’s learned or in Robbe’s blood, it’s just his way of coping. To stay steady, do the proper thing and keep pushing forward, one foot in front of the other. Sander suspects he hasn’t seen the full extent of it yet, the iron in him.

“I know you would,” Robbe says quietly.

So Sander blows him a kiss and Robbe catches it without missing a beat, presses it open-palmed against his chest. It feels like balance, rhythm, that easy back-and-forth Sander didn’t think he’d ever share with another person.

And maybe it’s not the sweepingly grand reunion he’d dreamed of, not the two of them colliding and exploding the way they always seem to. It’s not Robbe taking a running leap into his arms, or a face-clinging stumble to stay upright, Robbe’s tears on his tongue as they kiss. It’s not the end of the tunnel, but it feels like one of those little victories all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> The first song Sander sings is the title track, and the second is _59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)_ by Simon and Garfunkel, because why wouldn't he love a song about talking to lampposts
> 
> Also, most of the Doel stuff is taken from the Broerrrs Vlog, in which Robbe literally does stop to point out some "pretty flowers" like the endlessly soft boy that he is
> 
> I hope everyone is well and safe x


End file.
